


Sometimes, a Bard gets Played

by Thorny



Series: Witcher Boys in Peril [5]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Cussing, Drugged Sex, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Monsters, Multiple Orgasms, Other, Overstimulation, Prostate Massage, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Pollen, Temporary Amnesia, Tentacle Rape, Tentacles, Vines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 14:01:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22497280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorny/pseuds/Thorny
Summary: Jaskier makes a poor life decision to spend the night in this particular village in Velen...
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Witcher Boys in Peril [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1391605
Comments: 9
Kudos: 144





	Sometimes, a Bard gets Played

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for how long its been since I vaguely promised this. Also, I do refer to Dandelion as Jaskier for the entire fic, just in case anyone reading this is not familiar with the show/book.
> 
> Enjoy the fifth installment of this not-quite-a-crack fic-if-you-squint-real-hard. Away!

Jaskier was not having the best day. In fact, Jaskier had not been having the best week. The weather had been absolutely abysmal for days, which was extremely unfortunate when one was forced to travel by open air cart courtesy of the only merchant around willing to take a few coins for the trouble.

He was damp. He was cold. He was doing his damnable best not to be as cranky as a certain white-haired Witcher. Thus far, he was succeeding.

Then a pack of starving, war-crazed wild dogs attacked the cart. The poor old nag spooked and bolted, launching her bard passenger and most of the merchant’s goods onto the wet dirt in an undignified sprawl. The merchant himself just barely managed to keep hold of the reins. Jaskier hauled himself to his feet and grabbed his essentials, making his own getaway in the opposite direction before the dogs circled back. 

Jaskier ran until his lungs burned and the cold seeped back into his skin from the constant drizzle. Collapsing forward with his hands on his knees, he caught his breath and checked his surroundings. Finally, a single stroke of good luck; he was near a crossroads. With legible signage. The bard forced himself to walk the few feet to be able to see the wooden signs, murmuring under his breath as he read.

“Blast,” Jaskier cursed to the winds. His options were following the recently chased off cart and its potentially still starving assailants, or going left toward a place simply called ‘Sumac Grove’. The bard rolled his eyes and tsked. What a dismal name. Velen was full of war-torn and desolate people, why in the world would they go naming a town after a poisonous plant?  
A low, uncomfortably close howl spurred Jaskier to make his decision. He spun and started down the left path, figuring anywhere away from slavering jaws was best.

Jaskier was pleasantly surprised with his choice as the skies slowly cleared and the sun peeked out for the first time since the bard hit the road this trip. There was a little pep in his step as his spirits lifted. Short stone walls separated small plots of flourishing farmland as he continued on.  
“Well, a spot of good fortune in the midst of all this horror,” the bard murmured to himself with a bit of a musical note to his words. A farmer offered a friendly wave as he rested against his plow. Jaskier smiled back, enjoying a friendly greeting over the usual sour disposition.

As the little hamlet came into view, Jaskier couldn’t help but notice the dark and mildly foreboding forest looming beyond the town. Geralt always warned against fumbling about in any sort of copse that looked like _that._  
The bard offered a little shrug to his mental shoulder Witcher. He was just going to stop for the night, get his bearings, maybe a nip of liquor to warm his insides and get a move on. 

What was the worst that could happen?

The inn was warm, dry, and infinitely inviting to the damp, cold, mildly sore bard.  
“Ho! Traveller, you look miserable!” The large, dark haired innkeeper greeted jovially. Jaskier plastered on his best smile.  
“Got it in one, good sir,” the bard bowed slightly, “And could this bedraggled and tired traveler trouble you for some bread and perhaps a drink?”  
“Of course! Sit, sit,” the innkeeper grandly gestured to an empty wooden table. Jaskier took the offer, resting his lute against the wall gently. Just as he sat down, a conventionally attractive young woman with a small, fuschia flower tucked into her soft brown curls set a mug of some local booze on the table with a kind smile.  
“An ale, for the poor sodden gentleman.”  
“Why thank you, miss…?”  
She blushed and tucked her face away in her sleeve. “Kyriah, sir.”  
“Ah, a beautiful name for a beautiful woman,” Jaskier batted his eyelashes and grinned when the woman laughed softly behind her hand. “I am called Jaskier by most. And what, pray tell, is such a delicate beauty doing working in a tavern?”  
“Advertising, actually,” She corrected, gesturing to the pouches on her belt, “I am the village herbalist, but sometimes I like to serve my own home brewed ale to neighbors and travellers alike.”  
“An herbalist _and_ a brewess? Heavens strike me down, I might be in love!” Jaskier dramatically proclaimed, lifting the mug to give it an appreciative sniff. It did actually smell quite pleasantly fragrant; an almost citrus bitterness under the nutty overtone. Kyriah softly laughed again, blushing faintly across her face.  
“Nothing terribly fancy like you would find in Oxenford, just a simple maid’s dabblings.”  
“On the contrary, Oxenford sells - and forgive my rude bluntness - absolute piss compared to this!”  
She blushed deeper, ducking her head to hide in her hair. “Oh, sir bard, please. I’m nothing special. Enjoy the ale, on the house,” Kyriah offered a shy smile before she slipped away to speak with another table of locals. 

Jaskier reluctantly let her escape, sighing heavily as his fickle heartstrings sang odes to her rustic charm. Knowing his luck, she was probably already married. Or at least betrothed. Likely to some farmer or merchant.  
That hadn’t exactly stopped him before, but stirring trouble in this little hamlet might get the bard lynched. He let out another sigh before he took an experimental sip of the ale. Flavor exploded over his tongue and Jaskier hummed happily. His compliments weren’t all huff and puff.

He drained the mug long before the innkeeper returned to set a plate of cheese and bread in front of the bard.  
“Ah, young Kyriah’s brew was to your liking?”  
“I’ve never had its equal,” Jaskier praised, making a grand gesture. The innkeeper chuckled.  
“High praise from a non-local. You must not get around much,” the man teased, nudging the bard with an elbow. Jaskier played along with a mirthful laugh. Exchanging a few other necessary pleasantries, the bard was left to enjoy his quick dinner and another mug of ale - this one costing him a coin. He wasn’t too broken up about the cost; he’d have to remember to brag to ol’ Zoltan about it.

The inn slowly filled up as the sun went down, and with permission from the ‘keep, Jaskier took up his lute and strummed a few notes to check the tune. Once he had drawn some attention, the bard loosed a grin and belted out a rousing rendition of his best songs.  
The crowd of farmers, their wives, and a couple children were loving it. Some were even somewhat familiar with the popular ones. Jaskier always loved it when an audience sang along - it didn’t matter if it was off key and tone deaf. The wincing was worth the extra coin at the end of the night.

Jaskier grinned and thanked his adoring audience at the end of his impromptu set, bowing deeply before scooping up coin and purse to stuff into his now somewhat dried clothes. Kyriah offered a shy smile as she joined the bard at his table once again.  
“So, do you know Geralt of Rivia personally, sir bard?” She asked curiously. Jaskier put on his best face and grinned wide.  
“But of course! How else could I write such accurate ballads?”  
“Oh! How wonderful!” The woman clasped her hands and bent forward toward the colorfully dressed man, smile hopeful, “Sir bard, Jaskier, please, our lord would ever so love to hear your songs. He’s fond of witchers, you see.”  
A lord? All the way out here? Would explain how this place seemed better off than the rest of Velen, though, Jaskier reasoned. A good leader with good negotiating skills could keep Nilfgaard from burning down their village. And a lord like that could be loaded.  
“Why, miss Kyriah, I would be honored to play for your lord,” Jaskier pressed a hand to his chest and bowed his head reverently. The woman’s smile practically beamed at that. 

The bard missed a knowing look pass between the innkeeper and a farmer’s wife behind his back.

“I am sure you will be compensated, of course. Our lord is quite generous,” Kyriah continued, assurances spilling from her lips. The bard naively chuckled.  
“Not to fret, my beauty, I need no convincing!”

And that was how Jaskier found himself following the herbalist into the very spooky forest much too close to sundown. The things he did for women. The bard shook his head as he kept pace with the woman, nearly tripping over the thick brush.  
“Are you sure we need to go this far in?” Jaskier hesitantly complained.  
“Oh yes! It's not much further, though,” Kyriah assured, offering a warm smile over her shoulder. Jaskier swallowed thickly and silently hushed the tiny inner Geralt telling him he was a daft skirt-chasing idiot.  
Finally, the forest opened up to a large clearing. The bard had another flash of apprehension as he spotted a ring of upright stones surrounding a raised slab. He cocked a brow.  
“This seems… foreboding,” the bard murmured, mostly to himself. Kyriah laughed warmly, pressing into Jaskier’s side.  
“Nonsense, master bard! This is the best spot to play for our lord. He is a bit of a recluse, you see, however your wonderful songs will lift his spirits!”  
“If you say so,” Jaskier chewed his lip as the woman led him into the circle. She gently directed him to sit upon the cool stone slab before hopping up next to him.

Jaskier wasn’t sure if that was reassuring or not. At this point, he was already out in the middle of a thick forest he couldn’t hope to find his way out of the darker it became. With an odd bout of confidence, he figured he might as well follow through.  
The bard shook out his hands before he brought his lute to his chest. Kyriah settled onto the slab next to him as he gave the instrument a few strums to warm up.  
“Any requests?” Jaskier tried for lighthearted, wetting his lips a bit nervously. The brown haired woman tilted her head and hummed a few bars of a familiar tune with a smile. The bard matched her with his lute before reluctantly belting into the ballad, slowly gaining confidence as the song progressed.

His eyes slid shut and he lost himself in the performance, missing the glint of moonlight passing over something moving toward the clearing. 

Jaskier finished with a flourish and a half-bow to an unseen audience, glancing sidelong to see if Kyriah approved. He stopped short. The woman was gone. A chill crept up his spine as he whirled around on the stone slab. Nothing. Silence. Unnatural, skin-crawling silence.  
“Well, shit,” the bard cursed to the woods, clutching his lute close. He jumped as a raven let out a sudden, loud caw. An answering creaking of a tree shifting in the wind set Jaskier’s teeth on edge. Geralt had told him many stories of the things that went bump in the night that the bard hadn’t the pleasure to see in person on their travels. None of them were nice things.  
“H-hello?” Jaskier tentatively called to the forest, “Miss Kyriah?”

No response.

Jaskier nervously cleared his throat and slid off the stone slab. He cautiously tiptoed to the edge of the circle of standing stones and tried to peer out between the trees. Nothing but darkness. He hadn’t the advantages of a witcher or even an elf to make his way back to the village on his own. Another low creak of wood in an unseen breeze sounded much, much closer to the bard. Jaskier whipped around and froze with a choked sound trapped in his throat.  
A bleached white antlered skull loomed several feet over the man, hollow eye sockets pinning him in place. Jaskier tried and failed to force some kind of sound past his slack, trembling lips. The rest of the creature was just as imposing; long spindly limbs, terrifying talons, unsettling humanoid skulls at its waist. All told, the panicking bard’s helpful mind supplied the answer; a leshen.  
“Ha-haaah - ngk! Uh,” Jaskier tried again.  
The leshen’s massive skull tilted to the side. The bard inched a step backward. The leshen did not move. Jaskier took another, clutching his lute in front of him like a shield. He loved that lute, but if it came down to his life or the instrument, he might be willing to make a sacrifice.  
“Te-heh-terribly sorry - uh - I’ll just be - going? Now. Going. Away from - didn’t mean to - trespass, hah. No harm, no foul?”  
The leshen’s skull slowly tilted to the other side. Jaskier attempted a third step. He barely swallowed an undignified squeak as he back pressed up against one of the stones. He tried to spare a glance to the side. The bard yelped as the leshen slammed long talon-tipped limbs on either side of the cold rock inches from Jaskier’s face. He hadn’t even heard it _move._  
“Hah - oh, gods - um, this - this is all a misunderstanding!” Jaskier grasped for words, “I meant no - uh - no disrespect! Yes! I meant no disrespect, you see.”

As the poor bard tried to sort his scrambled brain, he failed to notice the long, deceptively thin vines curling up his boots.

“See - ah - great, um, _powerful_ master of the forest, I - uh - I was just - there was this woman, she brought me here. To - to play,” Jaskier barely lifted the lute to indicate his meaning. The leshen abruptly leaned in close and the bard snapped his jaw shut. Jaskier absently noted that for a deadly, monstrous creature, the leshen didn’t smell as terrible as one would assume. In fact, there was an odd, sickly sweet scent slowly taking over the smell of the forest. The man’s gaze flicked to the side and he blinked at the sight of several dozen little fuschia flower buds dotting the leshen’s limbs and shoulder branches. As one popped open with a little puff of blue pollen, the sweet smell grew stronger.  
Jaskier felt his senses start to spin. The sharp pang of fear thudding in his heart dulled. His knees buckled. The leshen watched without showing any telling expression on its grinning skull as the bard collapsed against the stone.  
“O-oh, uuh. What - ?” Jaskier eloquently asked, one hand attempting to press against the rock for balance. The leshen let out a low creak, drawing the bard’s attention back to the looming creature. Suddenly, several hundred vines and roots swept the man off his feet with a startled yelp.  
“Whoa! Hey - wait! Ghk - ” Jaskier protested as the leshen shifted backward, giving room for its plant lackeys to rearrange their captive several feet in the air. More vines wrapped around the man’s flailing limbs. The bard struggled, brow furrowing as each harsh inhale seemed to make the strange heat in his belly coil tighter.  
“Don’t - !” Jaskier hissed as a pair of vines gently pried his lute from his weak grip. However, while the bard worried, the leshen had no intention of breaking the instrument.  
Another low creak commanded even more roots and vines to distract the handsome captive, slipping under layers of clothes to tease and undulate against unexpectedly heated skin. Jaskier’s breath hitched.

Well. This was an unexpected turn. His trousers were suddenly much too tight for certain abruptly very interested parts of his anatomy.

The bard twitched and writhed in the living bonds, not entirely sure if he was trying to escape or encourage. Everything felt like _too much._ His head was swimming like he’d tried to match Geralt drink for drink. Jaskier tried to shake the fog away; the feeling only worsened. He needed to _focus._ There was still a chance this thing was going to rip him apart at any minute. Though, knowing how leshen usually dealt with trespassing mortals, maybe… it would be best to go with the flow. He might just survive this.  
“Uhm, w-well, usually this involves - haah nm! - drinks or - or dinner first,” the bard managed to mutter, closing his eyes with a choked sound as several vines slid sensuously against his exposed chest. When had that happened? The leshen’s creaking commands drove the vines to divest the man of the rest of his clothes, leaving him flushed and naked to the chilled night air.  
“Duh - does drinking - ngk! - before getting - hn! - dragged into these kind of - aah! - of sit-situations count? Jury’s out,” Jaskier rambled, letting his head loll back into a cradle of interconnected vines. The leshen let out an odd repetitive sound. It took the bard a moment to pierce through the fog of forced arousal to realize the creature was laughing! He shot an incredulous look to the massive skull.  
“Really? _Laughing_ at a time like this? Sadistic jer - Haah! Oh gods...” Vines purposefully rubbed and undulated against sensitive spots to interrupt Jaskier’s protests. He let his head fall back while he clenched his fists as more and more vines pressed and slid and gently squeezed everywhere. Well, almost everywhere.  
The bard shuddered tellingly. The leshen slowly moved closer, stroking the back of a long, deadly talon up the man’s exposed thigh. It stopped short of the hard, needy flesh that had yet to actually be directly touched by anything. Jaskier couldn’t quite stop the needy little whine from escaping. Monster be damned, the bard was going to expire from arousal alone!  
“Juh-jokes aside, com’on and be a - a pal,” Jaskier swallowed a moan before adding a tight, “Please?”  
The leshen tilted its skull just as a thicker vine slid up the man’s leg, slowly winding its way up until it finally wrapped around reddened jutting flesh. Jaskier’s hips bucked unconsciously as he groaned. Then, a thin root coated in some slick mucus pointedly rubbed against his rump. The bard squeaked in alarm. Before he could verbally protest, however, the vine pressed and squirmed until it managed to breach inside.  
“Ho fuck - !” Jaskier bit his lip to try and stop the low sounds of shocked pleasure. The leshen wasn’t having that, however. It silently commanded more slicked vines to join the first, twining together to form one solid thrusting intrusion. The thicker vine wrapped around his erection squeezed rhythmically in all the right ways to have their captive panting and riding the edge of orgasm in seconds. Jaskier jerked and arched against his wriggling bindings. A desperate half-screamed moan escaped him as he finally came undone after a particularly harsh thrust.

The leshen watched through it all. Jaskier dazedly rolled his head to meet the creature’s hollow gaze with a fogged confusion. He got his answer a beat later as all of the living bindings started again and redoubled their attentions. Startled moans escaped the man as he felt his body respond in unnatural record time. All too soon his erection was hard as a rock and weeping with need as it was stroked and squeezed with expert touch. Two more slicked roots forced their way into his arse, stretching the bard wide. The mass thrust up against something that drove stars before Jaskier’s closed eyes. 

His second orgasm wrung a slightly pained groan out of the exhausted man. He went completely slack in the vines’ hold, gasping and brokenly pleading for mercy.  
The leshen creaked softly, raising a taloned limb to brush sweat slicked brown hair from its victim’s face. Jaskier blinked sluggishly, letting out a gasp and a low mewl as the vines began anew for a third time. They weren’t nearly as rough nor as demanding, however. The bard weakly arched as the vines inside him rubbed that spot that made him see stars over and over until he came undone a final time. His consciousness blessedly left him in the same moment. 

The ancient leshen tilted its huge antlered skull as it silently commanded its plant lackeys to release and lower the limp form to the soft grass. The poor thoroughly used bard unconsciously curled up on himself. A sound drew the leshen’s attention back toward the stone slab. Kyriah rose from her hiding spot with a saucy smile.  
“Did you enjoy yourself, my lord?” She asked with a respectful curtsey. The leshen rumbled and creaked, beckoning her closer with a taloned finger. The woman approached willingly, lifting her hand to stroke her fingers lovingly along the leshen’s bone jaw. Another creaking sounded from the creature as it caught her hand in its talons and nuzzled back.  
“Of course, my lord. I’ll see to it myself,” she assured. With that, the leshen pulled away and disappeared into the darkened forest. Kyriah glanced to the passed out man with a smirk.  
“You do have such a lovely voice, master bard.” 

\----- 

Jaskier let out a pained groan as he reluctantly woke. Gods, what fuckery had he been up to last night? He threw an arm over his face to block the cheery sun filtering in through the dusty window of what he could only assume was a room at the inn. At least the bed was forgiving enough for his killer headache. After a long moment and another reluctant grunt, the bard peeked around the room. Well, at least he managed to toss his things onto a chair in the room; his lute settled safely on top. 

Ugh, no more local booze, Jaskier told himself firmly. Stick to the known culprits. These sorts of hangovers were the absolute _worst._

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please check out the rest of the 'series' for more one-shot Leshen smut with other Witcher characters!
> 
> I love and adore comments! Even if its to tell me how absolutely horrible I am for writing these awful things~


End file.
